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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27431461">hands with prayers all over</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous'>propinquitous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Grief/Mourning, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Post-Season/Series 04, Sexual Fantasy, but like....the saddest possible sexual fantasy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:54:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,479</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27431461</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quentin is dead. Eliot remembers.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>hands with prayers all over</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this week has been twenty years long and sometimes you've gotta channel your feelings into kinda weird, grief-ridden porn.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Quentin is dead.</p><p><em>Quentin is dead,</em> Eliot thinks. He lies there on a cold quilt in the apartment which is warm with early spring and he thinks, <em>Quentin is dead and I am never going to see him again.</em> There is a wound held shut with as many sutures as spells across his stomach and it hurts when he breathes and when he stands and he thinks, <em>I can’t fucking do this.</em></p><p>It's maybe five or six a.m. The sun isn't up yet but there is a soft blue glow that has begun to seep in through the sheer curtains, and it lights his skin which is naked but for his briefs and the gauze across his middle in a sickly way. He has not slept and his body for all the pain it's in can't find the strength to rest. His knees ache and the arches of his feet feel like old bridges, things on the brink of collapse. His shoulders are sore with interminable tension and each of his knuckles feels like a bough about to break. Holding one hand up above his face he tries to remember the last time his hands did what they were supposed to do and he can't, not really, but he does remember— </p><p>Quentin beside him that first year, looking awkwardly over one elbow to mimic the movement for a spell that Eliot had wanted to show him, something small but that Eliot in all of his unearned wanting had mentioned to cheer Quentin up, because he loved cheering Quentin up, he loved to see his smile that was shy until it wasn’t, until it blossomed into dimples like it did then, when he landed on the tut just so with his middle fingers intertwined and in front of them in the grass two dandelions emerged, ready for wish-making.</p><p>In the room that is too big for one person, that shouldn’t belong to only him because for once things were going to be okay, because for once the universe was going to reward Eliot for his pain, but that is only his, now here in this room where he sleeps alone he blinks back tears and remembers how Quentin had with a sweetly smug smile refused to tell him what he wished for.</p><p>The ceiling has the look of an aquarium, shifting water and blue light. In the watery morning sun he turns his hand over to stare at his palm and remembers, too, his surprise at Quentin’s sturdy hands. When Eliot first noticed their squareness and the dark hair on his wrists his stomach had churned in surprise and later, later, when Quentin had put those big hands on him for the first and only time in this life he had moaned at how well they held his ribs, how they cupped his shoulders which Eliot had always hated for their knobbiness but that in Quentin’s hands had seemed for the first time in his life like something attractive and maybe even erotic for the way that Quentin had gripped them as his hips ground small circles in Eliot’s lap.</p><p>Still observing his palm he notes the lines that run across it and wonders if he has two life lines. Having never paid much attention in palmistry he’s not sure, but even now he wonders. But probably if he had two he’d have forty-one, a line for every life he didn’t survive, one for the life he lives, and one for his life with Quentin. It might be better this way. If he had for the rest of his life to look at his palms and see the lone piece of evidence of his other life, his life full of love and of shared meals and warm gazes, the life where he had learned Quentin’s body and mind better than perhaps he ever knew his own, a life spent cataloguing reactions to new recipes and to failed designs and to the way Eliot touched him, <em>Does that feel good, baby?</em>, four fingers tucked into his body while he panted and Eliot thumbed at his hip. How he’d reached down and with his own big hand touched the place where Eliot moved in him and nodded. He said, <em>So good, El, so— </em> and looked at Eliot with eyes impossibly earnest and present despite the state he was in, his mouth open, and Eliot had crooked his fingers until Quentin tilted his head back and closed his eyes because Eliot simply could not bear to be looked at like Quentin looked at him anymore.</p><p>Eliot realizes then that he’s hard. It’s a miserable feeling of pressure in his pelvis and he squirms against it, feeling ashamed and angry with himself but still he thinks of Quentin’s hands. How they looked covered in chalk. How they looked in the low light. How they’d felt under Eliot’s that first night and every night after. His memory of the mosaic often feels a little blurry, like he’s looking at it through gossamer or maybe underwater which might be partially explained by the fact that he has begun to cry, tears falling down the sides of his face and making his temples itch with salt. But he remembers Quentin’s hands, the feeling of them warm on his face while he cried like he cries now, how he had said, <em>El, you’re a great dad, you’re nothing like him</em>, after Eliot had briefly lost his temper with Teddy. And how that night Quentin had laid him down in their bed and rubbed his back which had been sore with stocking the root cellar and slowly, slowly, worked his big clever hands lower and lower until his thick fingers were there, slick and moving in Eliot so slow and gentle that it felt less like fucking and more like a strange sort of embrace, with no concern for his own pleasure.</p><p>Of all things, the memory makes Eliot laugh, the sound wet in his throat and echoing in the aquarium of dawn around him. He laughs at how suave Quentin could be when he wanted. How good he was at making Eliot come. How well he had always taken care of Eliot. How he hadn’t known it then and how he’ll never know it now.</p><p>Remembering it now hurts worse than anything Eliot has ever felt. Even as he laughs his chest aches and his eyes burn and helplessly he rolls onto his side. He thinks of how foolish he was, to think that he’d be saved and he’d come back and Quentin would be here, and they would kiss, and they would— they would make love, they would touch each other and be close again and Quentin would look at him with all the awe and adoration he had that day in the park, and they would hold each other tightly and Eliot would make Quentin feel so good, <em>so</em> good; it would be so good that Eliot would make Quentin forget the life they lived before with his hands and his mouth and his cock and they would build a life on promises that Eliot knew himself finally capable of keeping. In Eliot’s mind it has such narrative simplicity that now, curled up mostly naked and entirely alone in a cold bed and crying, it seems so obvious that it would never happen. He’d had his shot, his one good life, and it was gone. The universe was never going to give him a second chance.</p><p>He wipes his face futilely on the quilt. His cock strains in his briefs and he tries to push down the feeling, tries to stay still. But all of his wires are crossed, the memory of Quentin overwhelming like one drink too many, the memory of his hands and of his mouth and the way it felt to fuck him, how much Quentin loved it and how he always wanted to face Eliot, so rarely wanted to be on his knees or otherwise, almost always on his back or in Eliot’s lap, always straining toward him for a kiss, his hands all over Eliot’s chest and his back and his fingers fitting into the notches of Eliot’s ribs.</p><p>Alone in the half-dark Eliot’s face burns with shame.</p><p>In his desperate grief he pleads with himself to stop remembering. He tries to banish the memory of Quentin’s mouth, the lovely curve of it and its breadth when he smiled and how it pulled tight when Quentin sucked Eliot’s cock, the way his lips were always tight and hot around the head and then he’d relax, taking Eliot as deep as he could while Eliot watched and marveled until he felt the back of Quentin’s throat and then— and then, with his wry and wanting mouth Quentin would smile and moan as he swallowed him down in an act so profane that Eliot could only hold the back of Quentin’s head and try to keep his legs from giving out even though maybe it would’ve been right of him to fall to his knees in supplication.</p><p>And now— now he can’t help it. There are a thousand memories and they are all important, they are all— they mean everything to Eliot, now in his bed alone because Quentin is dead, Quentin is dead and he’s not coming back, everyone keeps telling him, and the cradle of Eliot’s hips is heavy with arousal that isn’t arousal as much as it is just— want, as much as it is longing for the feeling of Quentin, who is dead and isn’t coming back. Longing for Quentin’s hands on hips or his chest or his jaw, for Quentin’s cock in his hands and his mouth and his ass. Eliot is crying and his throat hurts with it and he thinks, <em>I can’t do this, I can’t do this. I was going to make everything right.</em></p><p>Rolling onto his knees and ignoring the pain in his middle he fists his cock and lets out a ragged sob. Against his face the cotton of a pillowcase feels rough but it feels right as he rocks forward at last into his hand which is tight and hot and he’s not thinking about it now as he casts clumsily with his right hand to slick himself and push into the ring of his fist and remembers too how it had felt, once in the early spring on the mosaic, how Quentin with his pants still hanging off of one ankle had climbed on top of him and said, <em>God, I want you so bad,</em> and naked in the dark magic air had reached back and guided Eliot’s fingers into himself, how he’d said, <em>I promise, Eliot, I promise, please,</em> and Eliot in his infinite weakness because he had known and would yet come to learn that he would give anything to Quentin, anything at all but especially this, his body and his desire and his heavy breath, had let Quentin push his fingers in and in until Quentin could ride with unsubtle shifts of his hips, groaning, <em>Eliot, Eliot, Eliot</em>, always his full name with his hands braced on Eliot’s chest while Eliot so mesmerized with the feeling of Quentin’s warm and needy body almost forgot that he could want anything himself.</p><p>For a moment he stops, takes his hand away from his aching cock to rest on his forearms and try to catch his breath. His face feels swollen and there are tears and snot all over and the wound in his gut aches but he doesn't care because Quentin is dead, Quentin is dead, and Eliot will never get to lay him out like he'd longed to do, to kiss his apologies into Quentin’s mouth, to press his lips to Quentin’s skin with the practiced, steady rhythm of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet.</p><p>As if Eliot were not the one in search of forgiveness.</p><p>Still his hips rock forward without his consent and he pushes his eyes into the skin of his arm and he thinks a little wildly of a time in their forties, one of their birthdays maybe, when Quentin as much as he liked to be fucked also loved to be between Eliot’s legs, and how Teddy by then a teenager had gone off for the weekend with some friends to camp and likely get a little drunk but it had been a kindness, an unannounced present of time to themselves that only an empathetic child who was no longer a child would give. And so Quentin, hungry for Eliot even then after twenty-odd years, had crowded him against the ladder and nipped at his ear and still asked, <em>Yeah?</em> as he pressed his hips up and against Eliot’s ass and Eliot had gone boneless on his soon-to-be arthritic knees and nodded, and then Quentin had fucked him a little rough and a little dirty on the daybed— Eliot reaches back and grazes two fingers over his hole and remembers, remembers, how Quentin had kissed and sucked at his neck and how his beard had tickled, how well he fit inside Eliot’s body, and how when Quentin really focused like he did then, how he could almost make Eliot come on his cock alone but he could never resist getting his hand around Eliot’s dick where it hung heavy between his legs because, Eliot thinks as he gasps and gets his own hand around himself again, Quentin always wanted Eliot with a force that never stopped surprising him. Even after a lifetime together, Eliot had never gotten used to the idea of being wanted and wanted and wanted, and now in the apartment he cries out as he fucks his own fist and thinks of Quentin’s callused clever fingers, of Quentin’s dick which was thick like his palms that had held Eliot’s body tight and then how it had felt when Quentin came, laughing and kissing his shoulder while Eliot felt the evidence of his joy and his comfort and his love dripping between his legs.</p><p>There is no best memory, Eliot realizes. He tilts his hips up to imagine Quentin fucking him and he thrusts down to remember what it felt like to fuck Quentin and he pushes two fingers into his mouth and thinks about Quentin’s dick and all of his startled gasps when Eliot would suck him. For one inexplicable and humiliating moment he thinks he can feel Quentin’s heartbeat on his tongue but he can’t because Quentin is dead and Eliot cries out and searches for that pulse anyway, licking between his knuckles, frantic.</p><p>Quentin is dead and his heart does not beat but Eliot sucks at his own hand and thinks about how now, in the apartment, he would spread Quentin out on this bed that is too big for one person and devour him inch by inch. Even in the miserable haze of his tears which are falling over his cheeks and soaking the pillow he can picture it perfectly: Quentin on his belly, rutting against the sheets while Eliot eats him out, the tortuous slide of his tongue against the sensitive skin there that always makes Quentin moan. He’d do it for hours, if Quentin would let him, but he knows Quentin and it’s no surprise when an impatient hand pushes him back and Quentin rolls over to say, <em>Please, El, I want— I need</em> and spreads his legs, hitching his thighs up around Eliot’s waist as Eliot lowers himself, his cock hard in his hand like it is in the reality where Quentin is dead but in his mind it’s infinitely better with Quentin’s warm body around him, his kisses sloppy and eager as Eliot pushes into him and they both sigh with the relief of closeness.</p><p>Even in his fantasy Eliot is crying, pressing kisses all over Quentin’s face. He says, <em>I’m sorry, I’m sorry</em> and Quentin makes gentle shushing sounds that turn into loud moans because even after everything Eliot knows how to use his body for this, to make Quentin feel good and say what his words can’t. </p><p>His fingers still in his mouth Eliot laughs at himself, pathetic as he is for thinking that fucking someone can be an apology because it is and isn’t but whatever it is it’s not enough, but he can’t think of how else to show Quentin how sorry he is except to make him feel good. And selfishly he thinks of how good Quentin’s body felt, warm and slick and tight, and the way he always opened for Eliot. Always accepting, always desiring. All the things Eliot had learned not to want.</p><p>In this world where Quentin is dead Eliot pushes up to rock back on his knees and imagines doing this to Quentin who survived, his shame gone as he chases the memory of a thing he’ll never get to have. He imagines looking down and seeing his cock moving in and out of Quentin’s body, everything slick, Quentin’s cock straining where it presses against his lightly furred stomach. He allows himself a moment to take in the image of it, a little ugly in the way that all cocks are and that Eliot has always found irresistible, the thick vein down the underside and the faint blue of his blood under the delicate skin, the head red and wet; the way it twitches with each of Eliot’s thrusts, with each beat of Quentin’s heart because in Eliot's mind he is alive, alive, alive.</p><p>In his imagination Quentin clenches hard around him and Eliot knows what that means and slows down, keeps his pace steady, while in reality he slows his hand and squeezes his own cock like he’d squeeze Quentin’s to keep him on the edge. He’s not good at much but he is good at this, he knows, he can distill all of his inarticulate feelings into the shape of his hands and he can fuck his fist and say, “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I never stopped, Q, I never stopped loving—” into the early morning air in this room where he is alone but he is not alone, not in his mind, not when he can see Quentin so perfectly beneath him, the sheen of sweat on his chest, hair splayed out like plumage on the pillow and his mouth open and panting as he gasps, “Me too, me neither, oh, El, El, <em>Eliot</em>.”</p><p>And what is magic for if not for this? For the briefest of resurrections, for everything that Eliot cannot have but can conjure and in one shining moment possess, that he can hold in his hands, precious and fragile and ephemeral like the smoke of rare incense, like the clouds out of which they had made shapes when they were tired and a little drunk that first fall in Fillory, everything abstracted and tinged with tragedy.</p><p>Eliot sobs and his throat is tight and he can feel it, he’ll swear later, he can feel Quentin’s legs beneath his hands and his breath beneath his mouth and, fuck, <em>fuck</em>, the soft hot feeling of his ass, the most unbearable of intimacies as he spills over his hand. It’s a shock and his hips still for a split second, his breath caught somewhere beneath his sternum before his body remembers, <em>Quentin</em>, whose hands are holding onto him like the drowning, and he shudders and his cock pulses and he pushes and pushes and pushes forward, making a mess of his hand and a mess of his bedding as he remembers the last time he saw Quentin without effort, there in Blackspire, and how Quentin had wanted to die and Eliot with all of his own suicidialities had stepped forward and told him <em>No, not you</em>.</p><p>He collapses. In the light which has gone from blue to white he cries and cries and cries. He cries for the boy he was and the man he couldn’t be; for the man he rejected. His middle aches and he thinks that probably he is bleeding on the bed but he can’t bring himself to care because everything is ruined, it all hurts and it’s all broken. He tries to imagine laying against Quentin’s chest and finds himself unable, the adrenaline gone and leaving his grief exposed like a sandbar too close to shore. He wonders if this was always where he would find himself. If like his mother and his father and like Mike and every boy before, that every yearning will leave him like this: stranded in search of safety. Lost on his way home, caught in the riptide and turning back too late.</p><p>Eventually he gets himself cleaned up. It’s close to breakfast time now, and people will be waking up. Quentin is still dead. He knows what everyone will tell him again today: it has to stay that way.</p>
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